The Foster Husband Page 18

  When we got to the meeting, Sarah and I sniggered over Richard’s new dye job – raven black – which, instead of making him look younger, gave him the look of an aged Elvis impersonator. It must have been the dark hair that made him look so grey; the colour had drained out of his skin completely. No longer was he the red and angry shouty boss at the head of the meeting table; this morning he looked like he was auditioning for the role of an undertaker, his face immobile and drawn.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said, and we all exchanged amused looks. What had got into him all of a sudden? Still in our post-show bubble, none of us could imagine what was going to happen next.

  ‘You did a great job, everyone,’ said Richard. I couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t have his usual list of figures in front of him, which made me instantly suspicious. He never went anywhere without those highlighted spreadsheets, I swear he slept with them clutched to his chest like a security blanket. ‘Great job. No one could have asked for more of you. Not even me.’

  Sarah’s expression was quizzical, and mine must have matched it. The wash-up meeting wasn’t about praise – we’d congratulated ourselves enough in the hotel bar after the show – it was about picking holes in the event so they didn’t happen next time. Working out what went wrong, apportioning blame. I fidgeted on my chair. Something was up.

  Richard cleared his throat and continued. ‘I’m just going to come out and say it. They’re shutting us down. That was our last event for Hitz. I’m sorry.’

  We were all too surprised to speak. Sarah’s jaw hung open as she stared at him. Richard looked anxiously from face to face, as if concerned we hadn’t heard him properly. I felt like an utter fool. How had I not seen this coming? Being alert to the grapevine at Hitz was the only way to survive – I’d seen other people lose their jobs and wondered how they could have failed to see it coming. And now here I was, blindsided. Being away in Singapore was no excuse.

  ‘The whole department?’ I asked at last. ‘But they cut us in half last year. I thought that was it.’

  ‘I thought that was it, too, I’m sorry. They’re taking event production out of house. Jennifer Heston is setting up a new production company and they’re going to take over all ongoing events. What happens after that is anyone’s guess.’

  ‘How long have we got?’ I asked.

  ‘Three months,’ he said. ‘You all get three months – you can carry on working here until your notice period is up, or you can go home today and not come back. You’ll get paid either way. And you each have a meeting with HR to discuss the terms of your redundancy.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Kirsty.

  ‘It’s not as bad as it seems,’ said Richard, in a tone that suggested he was trying to persuade himself of this as much as the rest of us. ‘The package they’re offering is very generous. And Jennifer’s going to need experienced staff – and freelancers – to keep these projects running. There will be plenty of opportunities for you all. You’re talented and smart. I’ve loved working with all of you. I know you’ll be fine.’

  His voiced cracked and he dropped his head down, so that all we could see was the improbably glossy hair with his pale scalp shining through, ghostly white.

  Sarah spoke. ‘What about you, Richard? What’s happening to you?’

  Richard dismissed her with a shake of his shoulders. ‘Oh, I’ll be okay, I’m having a lot of meetings. Something will come up.’

  ‘The fuckers,’ shrieked Sarah in the pub six hours later. ‘The fuckers. Like it’s not bad enough they kick us all out, they get fucking Richard to tell us when they’re kicking him out too. Gerald should have had the balls to stand up and tell us himself.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jay. ‘Like in the war, making a man dig his own grave. Nazi bastards.’

  The news of our redundancy had spread beyond Hitz within hours. Like a bat signal of distress, audible to those whose working hours were flexible to nonexistent, those who were perfectly familiar with the inside of a pub mid-afternoon. The cameramen were all here, their numbers buoyed by other freelancers who’d leapt at the opportunity of an impromptu session.

  ‘Dunno that Gerald’s a Nazi, mate,’ said Danny uncertainly. ‘Bit strong.’

  ‘Wanker then,’ said Jay.

  ‘Yeah, definitely a wanker,’ Danny granted.

  ‘I mean, Richard’s got no chance,’ said Sarah. ‘How old is he? Fifty-five? And that terrible dye job – he must have thought it would make him look younger for interviews. But he just looks ridiculous. Oh God, I could cry.’

  ‘Don’t cry, babe,’ said Jay. ‘It’s not your problem. He’ll be fine. They’ve probably paid him a fortune – enough to keep him in hair dye for the rest of his life.’

  Across the table Chris stayed apart from the banter, looking over at me every now and again in a way that I once used to find knicker-melting and now just found irritating. A sort of ‘you and me, we’re above all this, aren’t we?’ expression. I deliberately picked up my wine glass with my left hand and made sure the diamond solitaire caught the light. I didn’t need solidarity from an ex-shag. I was going to be fine. Just as soon as I’d got completely shitfaced.

  By the time the rest of the Hitz office started coming into the pub, we were all well on the way to annihilation. After we’d bought several rounds, I had ceremonially burned my Hitz corporate credit card with Pete’s lighter, which had nearly got us thrown out of the pub. In the end the barman had been persuaded that he’d be losing a great deal of custom by binning us and had allowed us to stay. Kirsty had had her bag stolen, which had added an extra layer of drama to the afternoon. I began to see how delighted everyone around us was – though they would have denied it immediately – by the excitement and outrage of it all. The theft, the redundancies; it was all the same to them, as mere spectators. We were the centre of attention, the focus of all conversation, our most banal utterances treated as fascinating. Everyone wanted to be near us, to have some of the glamour rub off on them.

  I knew it wouldn’t last – that soon we’d just be four people out looking for work, like everyone else, no longer the centre of anything. But for now I was fired up with adrenaline, righteous indignation and at least a bottle of Pinot Grigio.

  ‘I’m really sorry about it all, yeah?’ said Chris, sidling up to me. He pulled up a small upholstered stool slightly away from the table, so that I had to turn my back on the others to answer him.

  ‘Dunwurry about it,’ I slurred, spilling wine on my skirt and rubbing it in. It was white, it wouldn’t show. ‘I’m gonna be A-OK.’

  ‘I know,’ said Chris, placing a reassuring hand on my thigh. I looked down at it, but wasn’t sure I had the coordination required to push it away. ‘You’ll get a new job in no time, Kate, you’re brilliant at what you do.’

  ‘Manks, I mean, fanks,’ I mumbled. The room was refusing to stay still. The pictures on the wall behind Chris seemed to be tilting at all sorts of strange angles. The flashing lights of the quiz machine throbbed in my head.

  ‘I know you think I was just some casual shag, Kate,’ said Chris, his voice low so that the others wouldn’t hear. ‘But that wasn’t how it was for me. I was just – I guess I was just a bit intimidated by you. Never dared talk to you unless we were both pissed. I wish I hadn’t been now. You’re an amazing woman.’

  I tried to focus on his face, but I couldn’t do it. I closed one eye to see if it would make it better, and angled my head like a dog sizing up a toy.

  ‘Well,’ I said, wobbling on my chair. ‘Its a good job I’m totally sober now, isn’t it?’

  ‘I mean it,’ said Chris. ‘Don’t let this get you down. You’re going to get another job in no time.’

  ‘Of course she is,’ said a voice behind him. I squinted up to see Matt looming over us both, his eyebrows raised sardonically. He seemed to find the sight of the two of us slightly ridiculous.

  ‘Matt,’ I squealed, lurching up and throwing myself on him. ‘Matt, where have you been? I’ve bee
n here for ages.’ I leaned on his broad chest and sighed happily.

  Chris stood up quickly and stepped backwards. ‘Hi, mate,’ he said. ‘All right?’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ said Matt icily. ‘You?’

  ‘Yeah, great,’ said Chris. ‘I’m off to the bar. Drink, Kate? Matt?’

  I looked unsteadily up at Matt. ‘I think it’s probably time I took this one home,’ he said.

  ‘Matty, don’t be like that,’ I pleaded as Chris scurried away. ‘I don’t wanna go home. Wanna stay here with my friends and get drunk. Don’t spoil it.’

  Matt’s brows creased as he down at me. ‘Seems like you are drunk, Kate. And it looks like things are probably winding up anyway.’

  I looked over to the table, past the silver foil of the opened crisp packets, past the scattered peanuts and the empty glasses, past the upended wine bottle in its metal cooler. Sarah lay slumped with her head in Jay’s lap while he gesticulated over her head, sharing stories with Pete and Danny. Kirsty was on the phone in tears for incomprehensible reasons, most likely to do with her stolen bag. Dean from Talent had muscled his way in to drink to our departure, like the bad fairy at a christening, toasting his own survival against the odds. The party was in full swing but we, its ostensible subjects, were no longer a part of it. Matt was right, it was time to say goodbye to them all. Everyone else was going to carry on without us.

  27

  Ben has excelled himself, truly, by volunteering the information that he and Prue will be having a night in at the bungalow tonight. Usually they watch television at Mum and Dad’s, or they go out for quiet meals together, both going home separately before 11 p.m. I do not even pretend to understand their relationship. Where’s the mad passion? The spontaneity? The can’t-keep-our-hands-off-each-otherness of the soon-to-be-weds?

  ‘Just, ah, wanted to let you know,’ Ben says. ‘In advance. So you can, well, just so you know in advance, Kate.’

  ‘That’s really good of you, Ben, thanks,’ I say, suppressing the wish to pat him approvingly on his eager blond head, or give him a dog treat for good behaviour. I feel a maternal pride at his continued development – in my head there is a chart full of gold stars awarded for improvement.

  This morning he asked me if I’d like to use the – new, shining white, pristine – bathroom before him. And when I came out from having my shower I saw him actually brushing toast crumbs off the kitchen table. Okay, he brushed them straight onto the floor, but it is definite progress.

  ‘What are you two going to get up to, or don’t I want to know?’

  Ben flushes ruddily. ‘Oh, ah, nothing like that. I mean, Prue’s going to cook us up a brace of pheasants and we’re going to talk about the wedding over a glass of wine or two.’

  See what I mean? A brace of pheasants? A glass of wine or two? At their age? It’s not normal. My idea of a balanced meal when I was in my twenties was a slice of leftover pizza with a handful of crisps on the side for roughage. Washed down with a bottle of tooth-dissolvingly rough wine from the corner shop. And that was before I went out. The idea of spending an evening in with a brace of pheasants – well, at twenty-six I’d have imagined A Brace of Pheasants must be a really rocking new band, frankly.

  ‘Sounds lovely,’ I lie.

  ‘Actually, ah, Kate.’ Ben shuffles from foot to foot, hooking his thumbs into the belt loops of his chinos. ‘Was going to ask your advice, if you – I mean, could you?’

  I stare at him. I thought Ben was convinced he knew everything already. I’m not used to seeing him so uncertain and hesitant.

  ‘Of course, Ben, fire away,’ I say, settling myself at the kitchen table to dispense advice. Who’d have thought Ben would be so well-trained that he’d be positively begging for my thoughts?

  ‘Thing is, Kate, Prue’s asked me to book the honeymoon.’

  I raise my eyebrows at him, waiting to hear the quandary.

  ‘Said it’s my responsibility, you know. She doesn’t want to get involved.’

  Ben pulls on his belt loops, looking strangely like a male stripper who’s about to whip off his velcro trousers. I hope sincerely this is not the case.

  He continues, ‘Only, ah, she keeps asking me questions about it. And getting cross. And I don’t know what I’ve done wrong because I haven’t even booked anything yet.’

  ‘Wait,’ I say. ‘Did you tell her this?’

  ‘Tell her what?’

  ‘Tell her you haven’t booked the honeymoon yet?’

  Ben looks stricken. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it’s how many weeks until the wedding – five?’

  ‘Six,’ Ben mumbles indistinctly.

  I resist the temptation to shriek in horror. Why has he left it to the last minute? Why has Prue put something like this in Ben’s clumsy hands in the first place? But panicking won’t help. This must be handled with calm.

  ‘So where does she want to go?’ I ask, keeping my voice as steady and soothing as if I were talking someone down from the edge of a tall building.

  Ben frowns. ‘Ah, no, Kate,’ he explains carefully. ‘She said it was up to me to book it. Surprise.’

  ‘Honestly? You really think that?’ I try not to laugh. Poor Ben, and just when I thought he was doing so well. The man has no idea. And there I was thinking I was helping Prue out by training him up in advance – the truth is she’s going to eat him alive.

  ‘Well,’ Ben looks indignant, his cheeks flaring red again, ‘don’t see why she wouldn’t just say if there was somewhere she wanted to go. Said it was up to me.’

  ‘So she hasn’t dropped any hints lately? Not said anything generic about holidays or that sort of thing?’

  ‘No,’ says Ben, crossing his arms defensively. ‘Only, well, she did say something about should she buy a new bikini.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘Said there was no need, she’s already got one. Then she got all annoyed and went off in a huff.’

  ‘Right, Ben,’ I say, wagging my finger at him before I can stop myself. ‘Clue number one: she wants to go somewhere hot.’

  Ben’s jaw drops open. He gazes at me in astonishment, as if I have revealed previously unknown psychic powers. ‘Hot?’ he echoes. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘She hinted about bikinis, so she wants to go somewhere she can wear one. At this time of year that means long haul, right? So you can rule out skiing holidays, ice hotels, Northern Lights, and pretty much all of Europe, okay?’

  Ben runs his fingers through his hair, grasping his curls. ‘Long haul. Hot. Should I write this down?’

  ‘I think you can remember that, Ben,’ I reassure him, trying not to sound exasperated. ‘Now has she mentioned anything about, I don’t know, trying different food, like has she said she’s got a hankering for enchiladas or something? Or has she been looking at travel websites at work that you’ve noticed? Left travel magazines lying around?’

  Personally I would consider these tactics pretty obvious, but it is becoming very clear to me that Ben is someone who needs clear signposts if he is to be led in the right direction. I am surprised Prue hasn’t resorted to hanging around the office wearing a sandwich board that spells out Thailand, or wherever it is she wants to go. Though I wouldn’t put it past Ben to assume this is just a new fashion of which he was previously unaware.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘I’d have noticed. Sure of it.’

  Somehow I doubt that very much. There is no question in my mind that Prue, who plans everything, will have a definite destination in mind. It is up to me to help Ben identify that destination before there is another relationship breakdown in the Bailey family.

  ‘Okay, here’s what you need to do,’ I say. ‘This lunchtime you’re going to buy some magazines – go to the Post Office, they’ve got the biggest selection. You’re going to buy Condé Nast Traveller, Wallpaper, Red and Marie Claire. Got that?’

  Ben’s forehead furrows with perplexity. He looks back over his shoulder at the kitchen counter several times until I
divine his purpose.

  ‘You can get a pen and paper now,’ I say, and he scurries gratefully over to the pad where I write my shopping list.

  ‘. . . Traveller, Wallpaper,’ he enunciates, writing each one down carefully, his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth in concentration.

  ‘Okay, when you get back from work, you’re going to open them all up at the travel pages and have a look at what’s there. When Prue arrives you’re going to pretend to hide the magazines by the side of the sofa.’

  ‘Pretend . . . to . . . hide,’ Ben writes. He looks up, confused. ‘Won’t that spoil the surprise, though?’

  ‘Ben, are you listening to me at all? The surprise Prue wants is the surprise that you’ve booked the place she wants to go to. That is the only acceptable surprise, don’t you understand? I’m trying to help you here.’

  ‘Just seems like she shouldn’t see it all, though,’ Ben sulks.

  I try not to shake him. ‘Ben,’ I say, as patiently as I can manage. ‘Remember at school, in maths, how it wasn’t enough to have the right answer?’

  Ben nods hesitantly.

  ‘You remember how you had to show your working out as well as the answer? Right? To show how you got the result?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So this is exactly the same. You get bonus marks for showing your working out. You have to demonstrate to Prue the trouble you’re going to – let her see that you’re putting a lot of time and effort into this.’

  ‘But I haven’t yet,’ says Ben, honest to a fault. And dim to a fault, too, it cannot be denied.

  ‘That’s not the point! The point is that you’ll get credit for showing that you’re making an effort – do you see?’

  ‘Ye-es,’ says Ben, slowly.

  ‘Okay, so you let her see the magazines, and then you point to something like, well, like an eco-lodge in Namibia, and you say something along the lines of ‘I like the look of that, don’t you?’’

  ‘Not sure she would, actually,’ says Ben, shaking his head thoughtfully. ‘Not sure that’s her sort of thing, come to think of it.’